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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133675">Reprise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraCulpa/pseuds/PandoraCulpa'>PandoraCulpa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Gen, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft will always tease sherlock, Prompt Fic, sherlock pines musically</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:55:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraCulpa/pseuds/PandoraCulpa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock visibly bristled; it was fascinating, watching that wiry frame seem to swell in size as he stalked back and forth in front of the cabinets. “Just...” he flapped a long-fingered hand in what was meant to be a dismissive gesture. “Just play it.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes &amp; Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reprise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The crashing of the front door, and the subsequent clatter of footsteps through his foyer was enough to send Mycroft diving for the breadbox, shoving the horrid Ezekiel bread aside and letting his fingers curl around the comforting weight of the Walther PPK he kept secreted there. But only seconds later his name was called with such petulance that left no question as to whom had entered his house, and he let loose a deep sigh of relief. </p>
<p>He didn't bother hiding his annoyance or the gun however when Sherlock finally swept into the kitchen, himself appearing quite put out. “Oh, good lord, Sherlock. Haven't you ever heard of phoning ahead? Or perhaps knocking?” </p>
<p>His younger brother's keen eyes were fixed on the Walther. “Why do you have a- oh, of <i>course</i> you'd have a gun in here...”</p>
<p>“Don't try me tonight Sherlock, it's been a long day.”</p>
<p>“...spend so much <i>time</i> in here. <i>Any</i>way, doesn't matter, moving on. Here,” and he shoved a fistful of marked-up papers into Mycroft's chest, which he automatically fumbled to keep from dropping (terribly awkward with a loaded handgun, and his tedious little brother doubtless knew that). “Play that.” </p>
<p>Setting the gun aside on the counter as soon as the papers no longer threatened to slide from his hands, Mycroft turned his attention to what he held. Sheet music- piano sheet music, to be precise. One corner of his mouth twitched upward, but he still turned his blandest expression on Sherlock when he looked up. Younger Brother looked predictably sour. “I beg your pardon.” </p>
<p>Sherlock visibly bristled; it was fascinating, watching that wiry frame seem to swell in size as he stalked back and forth in front of the cabinets. “Just...” he flapped a long-fingered hand in what was meant to be a dismissive gesture. “Just play it.”</p>
<p>Tweaking his brother when he had the advantage was like muscle memory, a reflex Mycroft didn't even think about any more. “Why should I? Why don't <i>you</i> play it?” </p>
<p>The scowl on Sherlock's face twisted deeper. “You know why,” he rumbled, his baritone growl deepening in a warning which Mycroft had long been accustomed to ignoring. </p>
<p>“I don't believe I do.” </p>
<p>“<i>Yes</i> you do.” </p>
<p>“Yes, I do.” He could be gracious, since Sherlock was capitulating so nicely. “But I'd still like to hear you say it.” </p>
<p>“Mycroft...” </p>
<p>“Say it, little brother. Why should I play this for you?” </p>
<p>Sherlock looked as though he'd chewed up an entire under-ripe persimmon and still had bits of it caught in his teeth. “Because I can't do it,” he spat, eyes glinting sullen rage. </p>
<p>Satisfied, Mycroft bestowed his most benevolent smile upon his glowering sibling. “Then I am most happy to accommodate your request.” </p>
<p>Ignoring Sherlock's dark mutters about Bartok violin concertos, and peaks of technical difficulty, and his fat fingers and inability to master any instrument that didn't require <i>banging</i>, Mycroft led them back to his parlor where he had, in a fit of necessity he sometimes framed as nostalgia, installed a modest but well-tuned baby grand piano. Settling down on the stool, he arranged the pages in front of him before quirking a curious eyebrow at his younger brother. “Your own composition?” </p>
<p>“Shut up and play it.” </p>
<p>Just to be contrary, he did. It was a surprisingly delicate piece, and Mycroft picked his way through the quick fingering with ease, despite Sherlock's earlier complaints of ham-handedness. Emotional, very nearly innocent, but with just enough darkness to balance the sweetness. He began to add in the heavier bass notes, leaning on them ever so slightly, and in the corner, Sherlock twitched. One finger tapped the counterpoint along a lean bicep, almost as though he couldn't help himself. </p>
<p>Mycroft played on, appreciating the complexities of the piece; the fragile arpeggios, the deeper, slower melody beneath. Despite his teasing, he could see why Sherlock had chosen to swallow his pride and write this music for an instrument he did not play. And to his own chagrin, he had to admit that he was enjoying playing his piano. Its voice was haunting through the high notes, resonant in the lower range, perfectly suited to the urgent wistfulness of the music it conveyed. It was all quite moving, really. Not at all the sort of thing one might expect of Sherlock, but then again, such outliers of behavior were cropping up more and more often in his life since acquiring John Watson.... </p>
<p>...Then again, perhaps this wasn't so unexpected, after all. </p>
<p>The final notes were allowed to fade, and before Mycroft could turn on the stool Sherlock was already there, snatching the pages from the music rack and blustering off to a table where he added notations and changed a few notes before rushing back to replace them. </p>
<p>“Again,” he demanded, though quieter this time. </p>
<p>It would be so easy to needle him. To cut him with a word, an insinuation. The reflex was still there, years old habit, but Mycroft took another look at his brother's face. Drawn, not with weariness, but with emotion. The same kind of look he hadn't seen since Sherlock was still a child, unable to understand the vast separation between himself and other children. Yearning, vulnerable, with a deeper sadness beneath that he doubted even Sherlock himself recognized. </p>
<p>And suddenly he was fifteen again, seeing young Sherlock twisting his face into a scowl, instead of crumpling into tears. He was twenty five, watching Sherlock walling himself away and deliberately alienating everyone around him rather than facing their rejection. He was twenty nine, and Sherlock was destroying his incredible mind as quickly as possible with cocaine and heroin. He was thirty four, and John Watson was the unprecedented individual dimming the entrenched loneliness in Sherlock's eyes.</p>
<p>He is thirty six, and watching Sherlock try to reach out once again.</p>
<p>Turning back to the keys, Mycroft inclined his head in agreement, some of the usual tension around his mouth relaxing slightly. “My pleasure, brother mine,” he answered, and played.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not a new piece, but a promptfic I thought worth preserving.  Apologies for the brevity.  Writing Mycroft was surprisingly fun though.</p>
<p>And I almost forgot- this is the musical prompt for the story, and what I was listening to as I described Sherlock's composition: <a href="https://soundcloud.com/steven-gutheinz/sierra">Steven Gutheinz- Sierra</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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